


A Bench by Any Other Length is Still Just a Long Chair

by IntelligentAirhead, obstinateRixatrix



Series: F(A) [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Dave Strider, Pre-Relationship, extra scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntelligentAirhead/pseuds/IntelligentAirhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinateRixatrix/pseuds/obstinateRixatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Kanaya, being Kanaya, probably accounted for everyone’s personality before even drafting the outfits. You can definitely appreciate the work she’s put into your own, among others. You’re not about to walk up to her and start a conversation about it, though. She and Rose are meandering through the scenic park just adjacent to the majestic River Tab, named after the patron god of Cantown. It’s where you’ve thoughtfully placed some candles. And flowers. And a single bench, just barely big enough that a single human and a single troll could sit side by side, and that specific sizing took a lot of trial and error with the most uncooperative bilgesack this side of the Veil, so you hope they appreciate it.</p>
</blockquote><p>Or, in which more overt methods of courtship are couched in subtext.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bench by Any Other Length is Still Just a Long Chair

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys remember the extra scene we said we'd write for F(A). this isn't it. enjoy.
> 
> -Stella
> 
> stella and I share this quality that I like to refer to as "And Another Thing," and sometimes that translates into us creating ancillary content that may not have been planned, but Hell if it didn't happen anyway. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Air

Carrying out your crucial role as a fleshy paperweight rolling around a hugeass space rock with a bunch of actual, literal aliens is an exercise in adaptation. Getting used to weird shit is what your life is all about, nowadays. And out of all the weird shit you’ve gotten used to, the fact that you, Dave Strider, have somehow acclimated to someone whose existence is contingent on turning oxygen (maybe?) into carbon dioxide (probably?) in the loudest possible demonstration of recycling to ever assault your eardrums, that is _by far_ the strangest development of the absolutely shitfucking wild succession of events that make up your life.

But, as established, it’s all about rolling with the punches, going with the flow, and learning to accept constant disorientation as a perpetual state of mind. In all honesty, you’re already a fucking pro at that. A good thing too, considering it’s saved you from tripping ass over shades on shit that apparently doesn’t matter. Or maybe it’s just a matter of ensuring that you’re _always_ tumbling down a set of stairs labeled ‘fuck your human sensibilities’, so you never have to worry about stumbling over a step that’s half an inch out of whack. Just tuck and roll.

It’s a sound strategy, and it’s also why Karkat’s urgent summons of the highest order— you’re talking the electronic equivalent of gold leaf embellished vellum (except not because that’s more Rose’s m.o., and e-cards don’t work in space)— don't faze you in the least. You already know it’s pointless to even anticipate what the fuck he wants. Party stuff, presumably, but that doesn't narrow it down. Shit’s fucked when it comes to Alternian traditions. Bring out the party poppers, except, whoops, they’re actual literal cannons coated in the poisonous secretions of, fuck, space walruses or something. Venomous space walruses. Except walrus-equivalents on Alternia probably grow up to a hundred feet, live at the bottom of whirlpools acidic enough to disintegrate your fragile calcium-based skeleton in two seconds flat, and then there’s the tentacles. Don’t even mention the tentacles. The tentacles weren’t mentioned in the first place, but the fact that they probably exist is a fact that can’t be ignored.

Bursting into Cantown, you don’t even bother with a proper foreword, electing instead to announce your presence with: “What vitally important party prep work do you need done, and how much of it can I foist onto someone who actually cares?” You flop onto the ground, and alright, you didn’t intend for your cape to billow out dramatically, but it’s pretty majestic if you do say so yourself. Which you do. “Seriously, shit's weeks away. Pedigrees away. You're like the only kid in class that finishes the final presentation the first day it's assigned while everyone else is content to let the inevitability of scholastic procrastination take its natural course.”

Karkat figures out you’re not gonna move in record time, which means that it takes him three seconds less than usual to slip out of Expectant Stance of Tentative Prompting Number Three and (figuratively) jump headfirst into Hovering Stance of Flagrant Disapproval Number Nine. He glares down at you. You shoot him a thumbs up.

“Congratulations, Dave! You've already won first-through-third prize in the Smug Douche Championships by virtue of being who you are as a person. Don't sprain that puzzle sponge trying to come up with some way to surpass yourself; absolutely any effort on your part is an extravagant waste of time and energy when you’ve already achieved the pinnacle of self-congratulatory obstinacy just by existing.” Getting those pleasantries out of the way, Karkat wraps up the obligatory formalities of a proper greeting by kicking you. It’s more of a gentle foot-nudge, but the sentiment is there. “This is a job so simple, so undemanding that even you can't cobble together a legitimate complaint.”

Now that sounds like a challenge if you've ever heard one. “You underestimate me. Rose hasn’t alchemized a cheese platter extensive enough to go with my whine in the seven hundred years we’ve known each other.”

“Feel free to double check my math, except don’t bother because who fucking cares, but last I checked six sweeps doesn’t convert to anywhere near that amount.”

“Seven hundred years, Karkat. Seven hundred years.”

Karkat drags a tired hand down his face, letting out a sigh heavy enough to sink the Titanic. You’re gonna chalk that up to a win. But is it truly a win if hundreds are dead in the North Atlantic? How does Karkat live with himself. Young Leonardo DiCaprio had so much to live for.

“Just… take a seat,” he says, interrupting your internal eulogy.

To be fair you're _slightly_ more horizontal than what ‘a seat’ entails, but you still crane your neck uncomfortably just to make sure he knows he's got the full brunt of a Blank Stare. “I’m already on the floor.”

“Not there! There!” Karkat points somewhere a little further down the River Tab, and once you make the effort to prop yourself up on your elbows, you can see it.

“The bench?”

“Yes, Dave. The “bench”, if that's what you insist on calling it.” He even mimes physical air quotes, in case you didn't pick up on his disdain for human vernacular, which is to say, not talking like the most pedantic Wikipedia article that could ever possibly exist. But that's nothing new. After a little more deliberation, you remove yourself from the tender embrace of the tiled floor and make your way over to the bench. Karkat sits down immediately, motioning for you to do the same. Which, alright? It’s probably not rigged or anything. Unless Karkat’s discovered whoopie cushions, which would be hilarious for like five seconds before the situation hurtles headfirst into Jeff Goldblum’s gentle embrace as he tenderly whispers his wisdom into John’s ears— because who else would be responsible for unleashing this atrocity upon the world— ‘you were so preoccupied with whether or not you could teach Karkat to prank, you never stopped to think’... you’ve been staring at Karkat for at least thirty seconds too long. Fuck.

You sit down. There are no fart sounds. “What do you want me to do?”

“That's it.”

You pause, waiting for a dependent clause that will never come. “You called me here. To sit on a bench.”

“Yes.”

“Alright then.” There are worse things you could be asked to do, you guess. Acquainting your ass with a new friend that will support it through the trials of artificially induced gravity isn’t too much of an imposition. The bench will be there through thick and thin, sickness and health, dream bubbles and— actually, dream bubbles might be a problem. You’re pretty sure one swallowed a lamp and never gave it back.

After a great deal of strangely intent consideration, Karkat buries his face into his palms and lets out a muffled conglomeration of sounds that might have, just maybe, been words.

“What?”

“It's too big!” He shouts, nearly smacking you in the face. “This bench is too big!”

“Dude, I don't know what you're talking about. This is barely a loveseat; I'm practically waging a Cold War against your personal space. McCarthy’s frothing at the mouth here.” Dude can shove people at Russia all he wants but they’ll always be an inch away.

“Practically isn't good enough,” he snaps. He doesn't seem to be snapping at you in particular, much too preoccupied by insufficient furniture proportions to focus his ire at any one target. “I need to make another bench.”

“Why would you need another bench?”

“Because the Cantown inaugural celebration is a perfect night for a "moment" and I'm not going to be the reason it doesn't happen.”

“What are you— wait.” Wait a second. “Is the only reason you're setting up this shindig to set up my sister with her glowing vampire crush?”

“No! Of course not!” He looks a vague combination of incredulous and insulted; you're pretty sure you’d get the same expression if you asked him where spidertroll fits into his quadrants. “Micromanaging a friend’s love life crosses any threshold that could conceivably hide under a veneer of consideration and plants a flashing neon sign right in ground zero of a blast-zone clearly labeled ‘violated boundaries’. But a party like this is perfect for establishing romantic overtures! And while I don't expect _either_ of them to actually make any moves beyond the realm of plausible deniability, I can at least make sure the atmosphere isn't what ruins an otherwise perfect opportunity.”

Well. That explains all the candles. And flowers. “Here I thought our very own Central Park was a product of your civil spirit.”

“It's all necessary for atmosphere, Dave. Every component serves an essential function in establishing a specific ambience. And this,” he gestures, “is too much space.”

“What do you mean it's too much space? Two more inches and you'd be sitting on my lap.”

“Which means! I have to make it an inch smaller!”

As it stands, there’s barely enough room to fit a ruler between you. No room for Jesus. The ghosts of every PTA member that ever was or ever will be are inhaling in collective outrage, ready to fire off emails at a moment’s notice. Little Jimmy will not be exposed to this affront; good suburban values must be maintained. Not that Karkat, the heathen, seems to care what he’s doing to the good Christian suburbs of the meteor. Except the meteor’s probably… polytheistic? Considering the multiple gods floating around, and hey, you all seem to believe in each other, as well as yourselves (kind of), so… autopolytheistic? Karkat is defiling the good autopolytheistic values of the meteor’s suburbs.

“Look Dave, it's all about setting the mood. This,” he scoots as far as he can against against the armrest, affording maybe an extra millimeter between him and you, “is a safe distance. A friendly distance. A casual and mundane distance that builds a wall of plausible, _platonic_ , deniability. While this,” he scoots back, erasing the contentious inch between the two of you, “is a distance perfect for cultivating an air of tension.”

Uh. “Tension.”

"Yes! Tension! Making it impossible to avoid physical contact means, consciously or not, you're constantly aware of each other!" Karkat shifts against you, crossing his arms. "It's the perfect way to bring the slow-burning impressions of attraction to the forefront, a reminder to establish that yes, it’s still there, it’s an undeniable fact.”

Um.

“But it can't be close enough to be uncomfortable, otherwise you're not thinking about the tantalizing proximity, you're thinking about how cramped this disgustingly slipshod bench is. There's _precision_ , Dave, there needs to be enough space for actual fu—” He makes a face, and you have absolutely no words, even to make fun of the potential implications of his near miss. "Actual _utility_ , but there needs to be excitement! The slightest departure from daily routine! The slightest escalation of affection! We already have the perfect scenario; all we have to do is make all the components optimized so they can take advantage of it.”

It would honestly sound convincingly romantic (albeit contrived with almost clinical precision) if Karkat wasn't spitting out his rationale with the vitriol of a bitter physicist in the throes of a dissertation. He’s sourced every fourth line, and is running on caffeine and spite. No one can save him now. The only things he’s still capable of seeing are graphs, spreadsheets, and the cold embrace of the void.

You decide to make a tactical retreat. “Well. Alright. I'll leave you to it.”

“No.” Karkat’s eyes snap to you. “You're going to stay with me until I get this right. How else am I going to have an accurate measure of distance?”

“Hold up,” you say, because you feel a creeping sense of dread growing in your stomach like a parasitic moss with a firm foundation in you knowing who Karkat is as a person. “How long have you been at this?”

“How should I know, I'm not the jackass that doubles as a talking clock!"

"Well then," you say, because that sure as fuck didn't ease your apprehension, "how many benches have you made?"

"Twenty-three.”

Nope.

You stand. You turn to leave. You get yanked back by the cape.

**Author's Note:**

> [8/5/2016 10:57:56 PM] Stella: okay so like  
> [8/5/2016 10:58:05 PM] Stella: writing dave 3rd person: cool  
> [8/5/2016 10:59:01 PM] Stella: writing dave 2nd person: Is It Physically Possible To Finish A Sentence In Less Than Three Lines, The Answer Is No  
> [8/5/2016 10:59:43 PM] Stella: every time I think I'm done writing a paragraph, there's just.... more..???  
> [8/5/2016 10:59:47 PM] Stella: dave has so much to say  
> [8/5/2016 11:50:05 PM] Air: HOENSTLY  
> [8/5/2016 11:50:07 PM] Air: same


End file.
